


Our Darkest Selves

by QueSeraAwesome



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Betrayal, Character Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-06
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-10 20:15:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3302090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueSeraAwesome/pseuds/QueSeraAwesome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots of bad decisions, tragic AUs, and ways things went wrong</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Individual triggers at the beginning of each chapter. This time, for betrayal and violence, implied character death

The aqua soldier, the one that isn’t Carolina, is a joke, spitting angrily in the sand, blood staining the armor. Wash tilts his head dispassionately, wonders what he was thinking, taking off after the “prisoners” without the rest of his team.

Reckless. Wash used to know a thing about reckless.

Oh, look, he’s trying to talk.

"You sons of bitches," the soldier bites out. "You—"

He descends into hacking. The sword at his side flickers to life briefly, before going out again.

"I wouldn’t try to talk if I were you, you’re probably bleeding out from somewhere," Wash says. He turns to Felix. "Weren’t we supposed to keep them alive? The Reds and Blues?"

Felix shrugs.

"Locus will be pissed," Wash says.

"Locus is always pissed," Felix says. Wash can practically hear him rolling his eyes. "Just tell him it was tactically necessary— do the Freelancer military-speak shit. He’ll forgive you.”

"You’ll owe me a favor," Wash says, turning to look at him. "For the lie."

"It’s not a fucking lie, you’re the one who shot—"

"And you’re the one who knifed—"

"—And you’re the one who even taught me that trick—”

Which of course, is the moment the soldier lunges. If it can be called a lunge. Mostly he just stumbles to his feet and falls on Wash, at speed. His fingers curl around his breastplate, haul him visor to visor with Wash.

Wash throws up a hand, Felix’s knife already out and poised to throw. He’s got this one. No interruptions.

"Where the fuck is Caboose?" the soldier growls. "And Sarge, and—

"Your team?" Wash asks. He used to know something about teams, too. "Caboose was the blue one? The one that wanted to ‘keep me’ back in the snow, right? You told him no."

The aqua soldier pants with exertion. Wash remembers being hauled away in handcuffs while he watched. Tucker. He remembers now.

"He was always a pain in the ass, wasn’t he?" Wash says. "Can’t see why you’d want him back."

"If you hurt the stupid little fuck—" Tucker hisses.

"He’s with Locus," Wash says. "I didn’t do anything.”

"The hell you didn’t do anything," Tucker snarls, but he’s wobbling. "He trusted you! And all this time, you…"

He’s losing consciousness rapidly. Wash knows the signs.

"Aw, c’mon, Wash," Felix practically whines, "Lemme—"

"Shut up," Wash snaps. There’s a headache building behind his eyes. Again. God he wishes he’d opted to join Locus on his side of the mission. "Shut the fuck up, Felix."

“Fine. Geez. Testy.”

Wash wraps cruel fingers around the lip of the soldier’s drooping helmet, brings his eyes back up to his.

"You knew he’d let you down," Wash says. "You should have let him go."

"Ca- Caboose…"

The soldier slumps in his grip.

"Is he dead?" Felix asks.

Wash detaches the soldier’s fingers from around his breastplate, lets him fall back into the sand.

"No," he says. "Not yet."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> unrequited feelings

Because they are Reds and Blues and everything is fucking cyclical they end up at the fucking Alien temple thing again. Looking for some shit. Whatever. Carolina and Wash seemed to think it was important. Tucker’s just along for the ride. (Again.)

"What the fuck is this thing, some kinda TV?" Church asks as they comb the ruins.

Carolina’s gone on ahead of them. She’s super-focused on finding what they need out of here and getting out. For some god-forsaken reason, Church is hanging out near Tucker, though. Asshole.

"I dunno, man," Tucker says. "I never got it to turn on. Which is weird, like, I’m usually good with the alien shit. But it doesn’t even have any buttons."

"Nah, I don’t think it would," Church says, investigating. "I think it needs some kind of input value to get it going. Let me see…"

"You’re saying it needs a computer program to turn it on. Well, whoop de fucking doo. What a coincidence," Tucker says, tone scathing.

"Naw, I think it needs both," Church says. "I’m getting some sort of organic matter scanner and a request for input— Hey, Tucker, put your hand there, yeah, there, and then if I just—"

The screen flickers on and Tucker jumps.

"What the fuck did you do, man?"

"Turned it on," Church says, smug. "What the fuck is this thing, anyway?"

It certainly looks like a TV. A screen. It’s showing a starscape right now.

"Stars?" Tucker whines. "Boooring. I was hoping for—"

And then teh screen changes. The ruins of a city. Recent ruins, if the bodies are any indication.

"Man, does this thing ever show interesting shit?" Tucker asks. "Where’s the remote—"

Except the screen changes again. And this time, Tucker’s on it.

It’s Tucker. But not Tucker. This one’s got a big scar across his face. He’s sitting on a couch, only armored from the waist down, almost feline in his laziness. And he’s smiling. He looks more carefree than Tucker’s felt in a long time. Like back at—

"Holy fuck, is that Blood Gulch?" Church asks, flitting closer. "It is! And, hey, there’s me!"

Sure enough, a soldier in cobalt armor appears, clearly back from patrol. (Tucker would know. How many times did he see Church trudge back in, bitching and moaning about Caboose, about his feet, about the Reds, anything at all.)

Other Tucker hands Other Church a beer. The helmets are bobbing as they talk, but Tucker can’t hear what they’re saying. They’re clearly joking around. The other him’s laughing, a great big belly laugh, head leaning back against the couch, mouth wide open. He looks like an idiot.

The other Church puts the beer bottle down on the table, reaches for his helmet and—

—takes it off. Shaggy black hair’s the first thing Tucker sees. A few months out of a military-reg deal. The other-Church blinks a little, adjusting to the light difference and Tucker can see how green his eyes are from here.

He’s smiling. They’re both smiling.

"Huh," Tucker says. His voice sound forced, harsh, even to his own voice. "You’re not a robot in that world."

"Sucks to be me over there," Church says, avatar bobbing. "That fucker doesn’t know what he’s missing. Can’t get shot. Super-speed thinking. I mean, really. Tough alternate universe, bro."

"Shut up, Church," Tucker says, watching the screen.

Other Tucker takes a long swig from his beer, emptying it, but doesn’t put it down, let’s the neck swing from between his fingers. Other Church rolls his eyes, hands flying as he tells some story (and Tucker knows he’s telling some story, doing some rant, he knows what that looks like, okay, he hasn’t forgot). Other Tucker interrupts him, making him laugh. God, Tucker wishes he knew what they were saying. What they were talking about.

The other Tucker tilts his head in question, a challenge in his grin.

The other Church straight up smirks (and it looks so familiar, where has he seen that smirk before) and then takes a step closer to the couch.

There’s no question in the way he bends, slides a hand around the back of Other Tucker’s neck, tips his chin up for a kiss. It’s practiced. Like the two of them have done it a hundred times before. Other Tucker drops his empty beer bottle to the floor, curls on hand up to wrap around other Church’s wrist.

"Oh fuck," Church says. But Tucker’s not listening.

He’s watching the easy way they move into each other, like they’re falling into each other’s gravity or some stupid shit like that. He’s watching the way they both seem to be smiling into the kiss, even if they’re lips should really be too busy for that. Other Church brings a knee up, straddles Tucker on the couch, the height difference meaning Other Tucker has to tilt his head far back to maintain the kiss, whole body sliding into an arch to maintain the best angle for a kiss, and Church’s hand still on his jaw, keeping him right where he wants him.

It hurts, it hurts to watch, but he can’t look away, is afraid to even blink, his eyes are stinging with the effort not to stutter closed—

Other Tucker twists, maneuvers Church down to lying on the couch, Tucker held up on his elbows over him and the assholes are still kissing, insistent presses of lips and the occasional slip of tongue while they work on adjusting their legs so Tucker’s straddling him, and that can’t be comfortable with that much armor on, how haven’t they broke the couch yet, it’s like they’re making out just for the hell of it, they haven’t even tried to get the armor off—

—And then it hits him. They’re kissing like they’ve got all the time in the world.

The screen flickers off.

Tucker’s not sure he’s breathing.

"Well, fuck, dude," Church says. "I mean—"

"Shut up," Tucker snaps. "Go find Carolina. I’m going outside."

"Tucker—"

Tucker stomps out of the room, doesn’t stop until he can’t hear Church’s voice anymore and he’s out in the sunlight, out in the oppressing heat of the desert. He levers his helmet off and lets it fall in the sand, tilts his head back until he’s looking up at the sky, looking straight at the sun, doesn’t blink, lets the heat, the brightness, the pain burn that image from his mind, doesn’t close them until everything is red and black and not the least bit blue at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two major character deaths, one cannonical, one not, and betrayal

Agent Recovery One find them at the bottom of a canyon, her brother’s armor a mess of purple, green and red. A lot of red.

The other one, though. He’s just fine, if out cold with a bump on his head. It would be easy, she could just—

But Agent South has a job to do, so she kicks him awake.

"South?" Wash asks. "How are you— What—"

His eyes fall on North, on North’s corpse and he lets out a moan, this long note of despair. South grinds her teeth so hard it hurts.

"North— North, no, please—”

He scrambles past her, on his knees, bent over the body. The body of her brother. It’s the man her brother left her behind for bent over her brother’s dead body; it’s the first time she’s seen them in years.

"He’s dead, Theta’s gone," South snaps. "What happened."

Wash doesn’t answer, just cradles North’s head in his palms, still making those fucking stupid noises.

"What happened, fuckstick?" South demands.

"I don’t know what happened," Wash babbles. "I just heard him scream and—"

"You let him die," South interrupts.

She thinks about North’s eyes, apologetic on hers, Wash draped over his back as the Mother of Invention crashed and burned around them. _He needs me, South. I love him. Don’t make me choose. Come with us._

But South wasn’t a traitor. She’s a lot of things, she can admit that, but she’s not a traitor.

"It was so fast," Wash says. "I heard him scream, and I turned, he wasn’t even that far away."

South snorts, checks how much C4 she has left. She just wants it to be over. She just wants it to be done already.

"I wouldn’t have survived without him," Wash whispers, carding a gloved hand through bloody hair. "I wouldn’t have made it."

"You got that right," South says, and pulls the trigger.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BlueT3, implied major character death

"Caboose?" Tucker asks, backing away. "Caboose, c’mon, man. Cut it out."

**"You cut it out."**

There’s some strange undercurrent to his voice, something beyond the octave drop, some sort of mechanical feedback lingering underneath his words. It’s fucking weird. And terrifying. Maybe more terrifying than how he’s cornered Tucker on the roof, backed him up until his heels scrape the edge. There’s some strange sort of menace in the bend of his spine. Nothing like the puppy-dog gamboling he’s used to.

Something’s wrong. Something’s hellla wrong.

"I’m not doing anything man, I just asked you where Church was—"

“ **I don’t know,”** Caboose says, drooping. His tone is almost mournful, flickers like it’s going to go back to his normal voice. **“I don’t know where he is. I don’t know where she is.”**

Tucker blinks, confused.

"Uh, Church’s a dude?"

“ **I don’t know where she is,”** Caboose repeats. **"She was here and now she isn’t."**

Tucker hasn’t got a fucking clue what’s going on. He debates yelling for Church, but Caboose still has him backed against the edge of the roof, still has some dangerous edge to him, something off. Tucker adopts his best non-threatening face, says—

"Look, I don’t know what chick you’re talking about, but it’s okay. It’s okay, man," he says. "We’ll find Church, okay?"

—the wrong fucking thing.

“ **He’s— he’s** _ **mine** ,_" Caboose growls, taking another step forward.. " **You won’t take him from me again.** ”

"Caboose, man," Tucker says, trying for placating, trying not to let the fear (the disappointment) show in his voice "I thought it wasn’t like that. I thought we were all cool."

Because he thought they _were._ They talked about shit, and agreed they could all share, it’s not like they liked each other or nothing, it was just three guys in a canyon and no one was getting laid otherwise.

Although Caboose had always been a little fuzzy about that last part, had taken to picking up both of them whenever he wanted to and swinging them in a bear hug, feet dangling uselessly in his grip (and it wasn’t _nice_ , shut up). They’d all taken to sleeping in the same bed most nights, military-issue cots pushed together or mattresses pulled off and squished together on the floor. They’d been _cool._ It had been _fine_. (It had been _nice._ )

Caboose jerks a little, a tiny internal war carried out in muscle spasms. Tucker’s not sure which of them he’s more afraid for now.

"Caboose—"

“ **Stand down, Agent.”** Caboose snarls. **"Or I will stand you down."**

"Agent?!" Tucker yelps. "Bitch, I’m just a fucking PFC—"

Caboose lunges, weirdly fast, and Tucker feet scrabble against the edge until Caboose catches him, hands tight around his throat.There’s too much strength in those hands, and it isn’t nice anymore.

"Church! Church, get your ass out here!" Tucker screams.

"Oh my God, _What?”_ Church’s voice floats out of the base. “What is it now?”

“ _Chuuuuuurrrchhh_ —”

Church doesn’t make it up the stairs in time.


End file.
